


Clinging to the moment

by EvilLittleWeasel



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilLittleWeasel/pseuds/EvilLittleWeasel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Feelings are scary, just keep pretending that they don’t exist, Lalli. Maybe they’ll go away.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The night is cloudy and moonless, and it’s pitch dark in the sleeping area of the tank. Emil doubts he could see his own hand if he waved it in front of his eyes.

His hands, however, are occupied gripping the rough fabric of the bedsheets in an effort to keep him from writhing and squirming as unseen fingers travel oh-so-lightly over his chest. He bites back a gasp when ghostly lips suddenly graze his neck, but wills himself to stay still. The smallest movement or sound could be enough to break the spell.

He can hear Sigrun’s snores somewhere above and Mikkel’s steady breathing, occasionally punctuated by Reynir’s indistinct Icelandic sleep-mumblings, from the floor ‒ he can even make out Tuuri’s soft snuffling an arm’s length away in the darkness. But Lalli’s breathing doesn’t make a sound. If it wasn’t for the warm weight of the scout straddling his thighs and the feather-light fingertips trailing down towards his stomach, Emil wouldn’t even know that Lalli was in the tank.

As it is, though, Emil is very aware indeed of Lalli’s presence. His stomach muscles clench deliciously as invisible hands trace their shape, and he has to dig his fingers deeper into the sheets to resist the temptation to reach out and bury them in Lalli’s hair, grab hold of the Finnish boy’s shoulders and pull him down against his chest to kiss him breathless.

Lalli might accept that for a minute or two. Then, however, he’d wriggle free, bat Emil’s grasping hands away and slink out of the bunk, not to return again that night. That’s what happened the first time Lalli quietly climbed in with Emil, and Emil’s every attempt to reciprocate the tantalizing touches and quick, stealthy kisses on subsequent nights has ended the same way. So this time, he’s going to lie still and keep his hands to himself, however agonizing it might feel to have Lalli right there ‒ thighs pressed against his own, hands exploring every last centimetre of skin on his belly ‒ and yet not be allowed to even touch him.

Although it would be idiotic to complain. If Sigrun hadn’t decided to put Lalli on day-scouting duty for the duration of their drive to Odense, Lalli would be out in the dark, silent forest right now, and Emil would be quite alone in his bunk. While that might admittedly have left him less tired in the mornings, he’d take this sweet night-time torture over sleep any time. So really, right now, Emil’s only problem is his embarrassingly obvious and almost painful arousal. He very much hopes that Lalli can’t see any better in the dark than he can. Kissing and touching is one thing, but Lalli would probably be grossed out if he ‒

Despite his best efforts, Emil can’t help the strangled squeak that escapes him when Lalli’s hand brushes over the straining bulge in his pants. Lalli immediately freezes on top of him at the sound, and there’s a sudden rustle from Sigrun’s bunk, her snoring interrupted.

“Emil?” Sigrun’s whisper is quiet but sharp.  
“Sorry”, Emil whispers back. “I, uh ‒”  
It’s extremely difficult to concentrate on coming up with an excuse, because, whether it’s intentional or not, Lalli’s hand has paused right on top of Emil’s throbbing erection, and it’s all he can do to not rock his hips up against it.  
“‒ I think I hit my elbow against the wall in my sleep.” He hopes Sigrun can’t hear how out of breath he is.

If she can, she at least doesn’t comment on it, contenting herself with a somewhat grumpy:  
“Try not to punch any holes in the tank, okay?”  
“Okay.”  
There’s a creak from above as Sigrun settles back down into her bunk. Lalli remains still as a statue, muscles tense against Emil’s thighs and his hand still in that same extremely distracting position, until Sigrun’s first muffled snore joins the others’ slow breathing.

Emil is half expecting Lalli to abandon what he was doing because of the interruption. He couldn’t blame him for it, either, although he definitely doesn’t relish the prospect of yet another night spent trying to calm his agonizing arousal alone. But when the scout shifts his weight, it’s only to lean forward, take hold of Emil’s hand and place it gently but firmly over his lips. The message is clear: _keep quiet_.

And Emil has to press that hand down over his mouth almost immediately, because now both of Lalli’s hands are busy investigating the outline of Emil’s cock through the fabric of his pants, and he can barely stifle his gasps. The scout’s fingers are nimble and quick, applying only just enough pressure to have Emil’s entire body burning for more. It’s far too much and far too little at the same time, and it’s with equal parts of elation and terror that Emil feels Lalli’s fingers curl under his waistband and carefully begin to peel his pants off.

He isn’t sure if the darkness is a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, he’s grateful that Lalli (hopefully) can’t see how flushed and sweaty and desperate for release he is ‒ he probably looks like an idiot with his hand squishing up his face like this, and his hair must be in an _awful_ state ‒ but on the other hand, he wishes he could have some kind of an indication of what the Finn is thinking, what he’s feeling. Does he find it amusing, seeing Emil reduced to a panting, blushing mess? Or arousing? Or… something else? Is he working on Emil’s body with that same cool, clinical precision that he applied to dismantling the remains of the dog-beast? Or is he hard, too, cheeks just a little bit flushed and lips parted in a soundless sigh as he uncovers Emil’s erection? Is he doing this because he wants Emil, or because he likes him and wants to give him pleasure? Or is it just curiosity, or some kind of a twisted game, or perhaps a strange and creepy ritual that Finnish mages do and that Emil has become the unwitting (though willing) victim of?

So many unanswered questions, and no means of asking them even if they didn’t have to remain absolutely silent. Not that Emil is finding it very easy to maintain any sort of coherent thought anyway. The air in the tank is chilly against his bare skin, but Lalli’s hands are more than warm enough as they caress his buttocks, thighs, hips ‒ which involuntarily jerk when those hands dip down to cup his balls. Emil has to bite into the side of his palm to keep himself from moaning as Lalli’s thumbs gently trace circles over the thin, sensitive skin. It feels so good that it almost hurts, and when one of Lalli’s hands slides up to wrap itself around Emil’s cock, Emil knows he won’t last long.

He’s unable to keep himself from bucking into Lalli’s hand when the Finn begins to stroke him, fast and firm and excruciatingly wonderful, while his other hand is still teasing Emil’s balls and making the pressure build higher, higher and higher ‒

Emil manages to muffle his cry into a whimper as he finally comes, thrusting hard into Lalli’s hand and shuddering and convulsing as the wave of pleasure crashes over him. He’s only vaguely aware of Lalli shuffling away from his thighs and settling down next to him, back against the wall. But when Lalli decisively pushes Emil’s hand away from his mouth to kiss him, he’s only too happy to respond even through the heavy, blissful haze descending on him.

The kisses are slow, lingering, as if Lalli was trying to drink in every shuddering breath that Emil takes. And for once, the Finn doesn’t protest when Emil finally gives in to the temptation and weaves his fingers into that soft hair. On the contrary, Lalli sighs against Emil’s lips and only presses himself closer when Emil wraps his other arm around his waist.

Sleep is threatening to overwhelm Emil, now, but he tries desperately to fight it off. To have Lalli in his arms like this, to be able to hold him and feel his body gradually relax into the embrace ‒ this is what Emil has really wanted most of all. He wants to commit it to his memory, savour each second fully. He doesn’t know what their nightly encounters mean to Lalli, and he’s afraid that the Finn might end them as suddenly and unexpectedly as he started them. So he needs to clutch Lalli close now, and hope that their kisses will help dissolve the lump of fear and longing in his throat.

But Emil’s spent body is already sinking away into oblivion and dragging his consciousness down with it. Still, as he drifts off despite himself, he clings to Lalli as long as his muscles will obey him.

He knows that he’ll wake up alone again in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, Lalli is almost glad that they don’t share a language.

Out in the field, it’s a nuisance, obviously, not knowing what Emil and Sigrun are saying and having to resort to signs and gestures to express anything that goes beyond the handful of Swedish words he has memorized from Tuuri’s lists. It does rankle with him, too, that he needs his cousin to go between him and the others for even the smallest things. Lalli doesn’t like being dependent on someone else like this, and it makes him feel stupid when the others are all talking to each other while he has no idea what they are saying. He could ask, of course, but that’s annoying. Easier to just crawl under a bunk to sleep. Still, sometimes it would be nice to know what’s going on.

This, though ‒ pulling the blanket aside, nudging Emil back down when he tries to rise up on his elbows, bending down for a brief kiss before climbing into the bunk ‒ this is easier without words. Talking would only complicate things, make them difficult when they don’t need to be. Because it’s quite simple, really: Emil likes it when Lalli touches him, when Lalli pushes his shirt up to run his fingers over hot skin and firm muscle, when he leans down to let his breath tickle Emil’s neck. In fact, Emil likes it quite a lot, if the growing bulge in his pants is any indication. And _that_ sends strange but enjoyable shivers down Lalli’s back, as does the way Emil’s breath thickens in his throat when Lalli lets his hands travel downwards over his stomach.

It works better than fine for them like this, especially now that Emil seems to have learned to keep his hands to himself. Lalli does like it, in a way, when Emil yanks him down to kiss him with a hunger that burns his lips ‒ the same hunger is inside Lalli, too, and sometimes it almost overpowers his need to stay alert and in control, almost makes him close his eyes and lose himself in Emil’s kisses. But Emil’s arms around him are always too tight, too eager, too demanding, and suddenly everything is too much, he can’t breathe and has to wrench himself free, knock Emil’s hands away and scramble out of the bunk. 

Lying awake and frustrated under his bunk afterwards, Lalli has been utterly ready to give up on the stupid Swede. However, it’s difficult to stay angry with Emil when he blushes scarlet at breakfast the next morning if he so much as looks at Lalli, and when his hands tremble just the tiniest bit as he helps Lalli strip off for decontamination in the evening. The temptation is always too much in the end.

So now that Lalli finally has Emil exactly where he wants him, he’s glad that words can’t get in the way to distract them. Because he knows that if they spoke the same language, there would inevitably be questions. Not now ‒ even Emil isn’t quite that stupid ‒ but later. Lalli can guess that from the wistful expression he sometimes glimpses on Emil’s face when Emil is looking at him, and from the way the Swede pores over the lists of Finnish words Tuuri has given him, lips silently trying to shape themselves around unfamiliar sounds.

If Emil could talk to Lalli, he’d ask questions like _why_ , and _what does it mean_ , and _what’s going to happen when we get back home_ , and Lalli wouldn’t know what to say, and then he’d mess it all up. Because when he looks at Emil, the only words that come to his mind are too big and beautiful and important and frightening to even think about, let alone say out loud. Words that would leave him weak and vulnerable, and that have to be swallowed back and buried deep down where no one can find them.

Lalli wouldn’t be able to say the things Emil wanted to hear ‒ he probably wouldn’t be able to say anything at all. Then Emil would get confused and angry and sad, and there’d be a different kind of words. The kind that hurt both the speaker and the listener. The kind that can’t be taken back once they’ve been let out. It would all be over then.

Luckily, Emil’s body speaks a language that Lalli has no trouble understanding. As he lets his hand continue its journey downwards, he can feel Emil’s muscles tensing between his thighs, hear Emil’s breath catch when his fingers reach the waistband of his pants.

He should have known that Emil wouldn’t be able to keep quiet. Still, though Lalli is mentally cursing at the Swede’s lack of restraint, he’s also very much aware of the hard cock pushing up against his fingertips. And there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that he can make Emil forget himself like this. That right now, Emil is helpless in his hands, and that if he wanted to, Lalli could probably have him moaning loudly enough to wake the entire crew.

Besides, the risk of getting caught does bring a certain rush of excitement. It’s not just fear that’s making Lalli’s heart beat so hard as he listens to Emil making his whispered excuses to Sigrun. She’s sitting up in her bunk, and if she just reached for the light switch, Lalli and Emil’s night-time activities would be exposed in a fraction of a second. 

She doesn’t, though. Lalli holds his breath as she grumbles something at Emil, but then she’s settling back down, pulling her blanket tighter around her. He can hear her scratching surreptitiously at her injured arm for a couple of minutes before her shape under the blanket goes still again. Emil is still lying as motionless as a statue, and it occurs to Lalli that waiting for Sigrun to fall asleep must be even more nerve-wracking for him, since he’s as blind in the dark as anyone who doesn’t have a lynx luonto’s night eyes. That, coupled with the fact that Emil’s erection is still pressing eagerly into his hand, is enough to make Lalli forgive him for being so noisy.

Still, Emil really does need to keep quiet now, because Lalli is definitely not in the mood to stop. Not now that he’s made it further than any of the previous nights, not now that Emil is so aroused that he can barely keep from squirming against Lalli’s palm. So when he’s sure that Sigrun is definitely asleep again, Lalli only tries to make sure that Emil won’t cause them to be interrupted again. The Swede tenses at first when Lalli grabs his hand and presses it over his mouth, but he doesn’t move it away when Lalli lets go. Good. Emil has some sense in his pretty head, then.

He also has a very nice, thick cock, which Lalli can’t get his hands on properly because there are clothes in the way. Easing Emil’s pants down while sitting on top of him is an annoying, wriggly business, but seeing his fingers dig spasmodically into the mattress as Lalli sinks his own fingers into the soft flesh of his buttocks is worth it. As is the sight of Emil’s erection jutting up from between his legs. It makes Lalli’s stomach clench deliciously.

But there are many ways to make Emil jerk and twitch underneath him, and Lalli wants to enjoy all of them, relish the sharp intakes of breath as he explores the inside of Emil’s thigh and the way Emil’s hips shudder when Lalli cradles his balls in his hand. Emil is beautiful, too, even in the grey darkness, with his head thrown back to expose his throat and his eyes screwed shut almost as if he was in pain.

So beautiful that Lalli can’t bear to keep him waiting any longer. Although he couldn’t have resisted Emil’s cock for much longer anyway. It’s hot and thick and hard in his hand, and it’s strange how it feels both so similar and so completely different from his own. Does Emil ever think about Lalli when he’s holding his cock like this? Does he ever close his eyes and picture Lalli as his hand begins to move up and down along his shaft like Lalli’s is moving now? Will he, after tonight? Lalli wouldn’t mind if he did. Wouldn’t mind watching him, in fact, seeing his hand gradually speed up and hearing him grunt as he thrust into his fingers, coating them in white as he came.

Though it’s even better like this. This way, Lalli gets to feel Emil’s hips buck up against him as his warm and sticky semen spills over Lalli’s hand, hear his strangled exclamation that he doesn’t quite manage to muffle. And as Emil’s head slumps back against the pillow and his fingers uncurl from their convulsive grip on the sheets, Lalli can lie down next to him with his back against the wall, listen to his heaving breaths, reach his arm out to feel Emil’s chest rise and fall.

He can also push Emil’s hand out of the way to catch those breaths with his mouth. Emil’s lips are soft and yielding under Lalli’s, and so is Emil’s entire body when Lalli presses himself closer. Even his arms, when they inevitably rise up to wrap themselves around Lalli, are slow and heavy with sleep, and Lalli finds that he doesn’t mind them, that he can let his head sink down against Emil’s shoulder and feel gentle fingers caress his hair.

He could forget himself here, in the warmth of Emil’s arms, let himself sink into sleep alongside him. It would be so easy to just let his eyes slide shut and slip away into the dreamworld with his face buried into Emil’s neck.

But of course they can’t be found like this in the morning. Emil doesn’t stir when Lalli carefully extracts himself from his embrace, though the loss of heat makes Lalli shiver a little. Leaning down to pull the blanket over Emil’s exposed lower body, Lalli is close enough to steal a last kiss from his half-open mouth, but he doesn’t. It’s better not to wake Emil. Safer to silently turn away and try to ignore the way his skin still yearns for the warmth of the Swede’s arms.

Still, it makes Lalli wonder what it would be like if he let Emil touch him like he touched Emil tonight. If he let Emil pin him down on the bed and be all hands and lips and soft Swedish whispers against his skin. Emil would be nervous, probably, and too heavy, and clumsy with excitement, and yet... Here, in the safety of his cramped nest under Tuuri’s bunk, Lalli can slip his hand into his pants and imagine that it’s Emil who is stroking him, remember the curve of his lips and the taste of his mouth, and the calluses on his fingers.

It doesn’t leave him quite satisfied, but it’s good enough, and he’s sleepy afterwards. Nevertheless, as he half-heartedly wipes himself off, he listens for Emil’s breathing among the snores filling the tank. And he allows himself to wish, just for a moment, that they could have something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are scary, just keep pretending that they don’t exist, Lalli. Maybe they’ll go away.


End file.
